


South to the Edge of Darkness

by coolbreeze1



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Antarctica, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 5, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbreeze1/pseuds/coolbreeze1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the close call with the Wraith attack on Earth, the team plus Carson head south to Antarctica to reinstall the Ancient chair, but much more is going on in the quiet outpost than any of them suspect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	South to the Edge of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately after Season 5's "Enemy at the Gate." Written for the 2009 Sheppard H/C Secret Santa exchange.

“Ready?”

“McKay, are you sure that ramp’s not too high?” John stared at the metal contraption the physicist had built at the end of the hallway, then down at the yellow and red remote control car at his feet.

“Hello? Two PhDs, Sheppard. _Two._ Of course the ramp’s not too high. It was a simple calculation of velocity, distance, the angle of the ramp—plus, with the modifications I made to my engine, it should be no problem. One, two, three—go!”

“Modifications! You can’t—McKay!”

McKay’s yellow car took off down the hallway, leaving John scrambling. He managed to get his own car moving, but whatever McKay had done to the engine in his car, it was literally leaving a trail of smoke behind it as it shot down the hallway.

“That’s what I’m talking about, baby!” he crowed.

John shot a glare at the man next to him and managed to crash his car into the wall in the process. Not that he’d had any hope of catching up to the other one. He dropped his arms, staring forlornly as McKay’s car hit the four-foot ramp and blasted off the end. The car careened through the air, tilting as its wheels continued to spin—

Right into the hands of Colonel Carter.

She stepped out into the hall just as the car sailed past her, bringing her hands up reflexively at the mad hum of plastic and rubber and modified engines hurtling toward her. She snatched the toy out of the air then stopped and stared down at the machine in her hands in confusion, as if the Daedalus had suddenly beamed it into her waiting grasp.

“Colonel!” John cried out, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He darted forward, McKay close on his heels.

Carter opened her mouth, then snapped her jaw shut again. Shaking her head, she handed the toy back to McKay as he ran up to her then tugged on the hem of her jacket to smooth the front of her uniform. “Colonel Sheppard, Rodney. I was told I’d find you down here.”

“Did you see the air I caught?” McKay asked, a grin splitting his face. He elbowed Sheppard in the arm, smiling wider at the disgruntled glare John shot back. “That had to be at least five feet. That ramp’s not even two feet high. I mean, that’s seriously—”

“McKay,” John interrupted, trying to keep his voice firm but he couldn’t help the small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He had to admit, whatever modifications McKay had made were pretty cool, and his enthusiasm was infectious.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Carter said, also smiling. Her eyes slid to the ramp behind them, then back to their faces. “We’ve got something we need you to do, if you’re up to it.”

“Really?” John asked. Frankly, he was up for anything. They’d been sitting just outside of San Francisco Bay for over a week now, and the lack of activity after the intensity of fighting the Wraith hive was starting to get to him, the boredom of sitting around becoming an itch under his skin that he couldn’t reach. Carter turned around and he and McKay fell into step beside her, their race forgotten.

“I just came from a meeting with the IOA and despite concerns over violating the non-proliferation treaty; they want the chair moved back to the Ancient outpost in Antarctica.”

“I thought the chair was destroyed,” McKay said.

John nodded. He’d seen the trail of black smoke curling up into the sky after the two Wraith darts had made their kamikaze run into the Area 51 facility.

“We thought so at first, and it’s taken us a few days to dig through the wreckage of the facility, but the chair wasn’t destroyed.” Her face pinched into a scowl. “Well, not completely destroyed.”

“Oh, I get it,” McKay huffed. “You don’t have something you need _us_ to do. You have something for _me_ to do it. Like fixing the Ancient chair is an everyday kind of thing. Although, I suppose I am the most qualified person on the planet—galaxy, really—to handle this. You can’t have just anyone—”

John reached behind Carter and shoved his finger into McKay’s side with a vigorous poke, effectively cutting the scientist off. McKay snapped his jaw shut and Carter bit back a smile. They stepped into the transporter, emerging a second later into the control room.

“How bad is the damage?” John asked.

“Bad,” Carter replied, leading the way through the consoles and on-duty personnel. “The damage was extensive, but the scientists at Area 51 think it can be repaired, especially with replacement parts from Atlantis itself.”

“Oh, the scientists at Area 51 think so?” McKay started, but John cut him off.

“How did the chair survive at all? That facility took a direct hit.”

“We were able to get word to them that the Wraith were coming. They were in the process of moving it deeper underground when the first dart hit. We would like the two of you to head down to the Antarctic outpost so McKay can assess the damage and see if it is actually reparable.” Carter glanced over at Sheppard. “Since you have the strongest gene expression, the IOA feels your help might also be necessary.”

“Yeah, because they’re the experts on what is and is not needed on Ancient chair repairs,” McKay muttered.

“When do we leave?” John asked.

“As soon as you can. A team arrived at the outpost with the chair a few days ago.”

John clapped McKay on the shoulder, a grin splitting his face. Finally, something to do. Even if it involved nothing more than lighting up a broken chair and double-checking connections. “Let’s go, McKay—things to see, people to do.”

McKay rolled his eyes, but he stepped toward the transporter with John without much of a fight, gripping his remote control car. John rubbed his hands together, the list of things he might need for Antarctica already forming in his mind and his own toy car a distant memory on his and McKay’s race course.

It had been five years since he’d last been to Antarctica and the outpost. Five long, momentous, unforgettable years.

“Hey, Rodney,” Carter called out as they walked away. “If you need any help when you get there, just give me a call.”

John stepped into the transporter with a laugh, dragging an erupting McKay in beside him and punching the residential wing on the map. The doors slid shut, blocking Carter’s smiling face and whisking them away before McKay could respond back.

* * *

Rodney stepped around the side of the jumper, weaving his way between the boxes of equipment Zelenka and his team had gathered for him. The report on the chair’s condition had been less than thorough, and the list of possible repair issues had spun wildly out of control. He wouldn’t know anything definite until he physically got his hands on the thing. Carter had reminded him more than once that all he was supposed to do was assess it, but who knew what he would need to do even that? Why hadn’t they just brought the chair to Atlantis?

 _Damn those Area 51 scientists, thinking they know everything. Or anything at all…_

The sound of a box crashing to the floor jerked him out of his thoughts and he ducked his head into the jumper to see Sheppard picking up a crate and tossing it onto a bench. What sounded like a thousand broken pieces of metal and glass slid around and Rodney glared at his team leader.

“Are you trying to break every piece of equipment in the box? Soft hands, Sheppard. Soft hands.”

Sheppard’s head snapped around, and then his expression pinched into a glare of its own. Rodney backed away, checking his computer tablet with the list of inventory against what they’d managed to load into the back of the jumper. Sheppard was mumbling something, and by his tone it couldn’t have been anything nice, but the words were muffled and incoherent.

Not that he really wanted to know what Sheppard was saying. The man always got grumpy whenever he was asked to do a little physical labor for the scientists, which was odd given his usual love affair with exercise.

He heard Teyla and Ronon before he saw them, and that too was unusual. Teyla sneezed as she walked up to the jumper, and the sound echoed around the jumper bay. Rodney took a step back, bringing his computer tablet up to cover his mouth.

“You are sick,” he said to Teyla.

She flinched, then groaned, bringing a hand up to her forehead and digging her hands into her eyes. “I am fine. Jennifer says I am near the end of my cold.”

“Are you sure? Because you look a little—” His voice trailed off as she glared at him. “Never mind.” He glanced over at Ronon, his eyes narrowing to the bag slung over his shoulder. Ronon had spent the better part of the week in the infirmary recovering from his injuries, and his face still looked pale and drawn. He flashed at the memory of the Satedan’s death on the hive, and the sudden return to life granted by one of the Wraith interrogators. If Sheppard hadn’t insisted they go back for his body…

He shook his head. That was over with—all in the past. Almost. He studied Ronon a little closer. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the infirmary?”

“Nah,” Ronon answered. “Doc released me.”

Sheppard stepped out of the jumper and clapped Rodney on the back. “They’re coming with us.”

Ronon smiled, brushing past them and heading for the cockpit. Rodney was the first to admit he wasn’t the most observant when it came to people, but he’d been Ronon’s teammate long enough to notice the slight stiffness in the man’s stance and the almost unconscious way he braced his arm, guarding his side.

“If I get sick…” Rodney started, his eyes sliding back to Teyla as she walked past him toward her usual seat in the cockpit. She looked like she had the mother of all headaches.

“I am no longer contagious.”

His gaze flitted to Ronon easing himself into a seat. “If I have to go all nurse-maid and change your bandages…”

“You’re not touching my bandages,” Ronon said, letting his voice drop to a menacing growl.

“That would be why I’m coming,” Carson Beckett huffed behind them, carting a heavy medical bag in front of him. “Barely a day out of the infirmary and already traipsing around the planet like nothing happened.”

“I’m fine,” Ronon pouted.

“Of course you are. What do I know?”

Carson bustled past Rodney and up the ramp, depositing his bag onto one of the benches. They had more boxes than space, and Rodney went back to his inventory list to see what he could conceivably leave behind.

Sheppard had grabbed another box and carried it into the jumper, but Rodney heard him talking to his two sick and injured teammates a moment later, all traces of humor gone from his expression.

“Are you sure you’re both up to this? Trust me when I say, this Ancient outpost is anything but exciting. You won’t be missing anything.”

“Won’t miss anything cause nothing’s happening. I need off this base, Sheppard.”

It was the closest Rodney had ever heard to desperate begging from Ronon, but he could sympathize with the feeling. So, it seemed, could Teyla.

“I too need this time away. I have had too much time to think and not enough to do this past week.”

“No kidding,” John breathed out. He spun around, heading back toward Rodney. “We’re ready to bug out of here, McKay. Chop-chop.” He hefted another box into his arms and waltzed back into the jumper, shoving the case of very expensive equipment haphazardly in between two larger boxes.

Rodney sighed, glancing around him. The back of the jumper was half full of all kinds of spare parts. He could fit in more, but what? He studied the boxes laid out in front of him, glancing at his tablet to read what each one contained. Behind him he could hear the others talking and laughing and he felt something flutter in his chest, like a weight he’d been carrying had suddenly lifted. He glanced at them, half wondering if they’d felt the change as well. It was just like old times. Like they were off on another mission on another planet with who knew what waiting for him. Like they hadn’t almost all died and lost Earth to the Wraith just days earlier.

It was normal. And it felt good.

He relented, cursing the Area 51 scientists and their spotty report again as he boarded the jumper and settled into his seat. The trip to Antarctica wouldn’t take long, but it would give him a chance to go over their report one last time before they arrived and he had to deal with those morons face-to-face.

* * *

Carson stood in the doorway of the jumper cockpit, watching the ocean roll away beneath them, then straightened at the sight of a shelf of white cutting into dark blue.

Antarctica.

“Here we are, folks,” John said. “Where it all started.”

The jumper flew over ice and snow, and Carson shivered at the sight. In the distance, he saw McMurdo, a splash of black against white, and then they were past it, minutes later dropping toward the small dome of the Antarctic outpost. The jumper settled into the snow about a hundred feet from the entrance to the elevator shaft that would bring them down to the outpost. Wind whipped across the icy plain, blowing gusts of snow across the jumper window, and Carson could just make out small buildings scattered around the edges.

“You couldn’t park any closer?” Rodney griped. John didn’t answer, but Carson caught him rolling his eyes as he stood up. Teyla and Ronon were already pulling on heavy parkas in the cramped space of the cockpit, and he stepped back to grab his own coat and slide it on. When he looked up again, his eyes narrowed at the sight of a bank of dark clouds gathering over distant mountains.

“That storm looks right nasty,” he said, pointing.

John zipped his parka up and peered out the window. “The weather report from McMurdo said it will hit within the next several hours. It is officially winter here in Antarctica.”

“When is it not?” Rodney mumbled.

Carson hefted his medical bag over his shoulder, feeling the weight of the strap dig into his shoulder, and weaved his way with the others through the boxes of equipment toward the back hatch. He stopped, waiting for someone to open it and caught Rodney staring at him.

“What?”

“Surely you don’t need your entire medical bag to change Conan’s bandages. This is a fully functioning outpost, Carson—with its own infirmary.”

Carson frowned but let the bag slide off his arm. “I suppose you’re right. It’s habit more than anything, I guess.”

“And the outpost is a little less than fully functioning at the moment,” John piped up, grabbing a small box of spare crystals. “They seriously cut down operations here when the chair was moved and were in the process of closing it up completely for the winter when they got the call that the chair was returning.”

“Oh, great,” Rodney said. “They used to have a fairly decent chef working here. How am I supposed to put the chair back together on MREs.”

“I thought you liked MREs,” Ronon said.

Rodney shook his head, zipping up his coat and grabbing a box. “They did leave the door open for us, right?” he asked as John moved to open the hatch.

“Did you read any of that report Carter sent?”

“I skimmed the beginning—I was a little more concerned with how much damage the chair suffered versus whether or not someone thought to roll the welcome mat out for us.”

“The team from Area 51 arrived with the chair three days ago. They know we’re coming. And we’re not here to fix the chair—just assess the extent of the damage. We’ve got 48 hours before we have to report back to Atlantis.”

He pulled the latch releasing the back hatch before Rodney could say anything else and letting in a gust of bitter cold air. Carson scrunched into his parka at the arctic temperatures that blasted into the small space. He blinked and ice crystals formed instantly on his eyelashes and nose.

Before he could change his mind again and grab his medical bag, Rodney and Teyla pushed him out of the jumper and into the painfully cold temperatures. No one said a word as they all ran for the shelter of the outpost. Carson’s breath streamed out in a puff of cloudy air as he darted across the snow, his gaze steady on the dome’s entrance.

He hadn’t been back here in five years, and he’d forgotten how bitterly cold it got on the surface. He cringed slightly at the thought—it hadn’t been him, exactly, who’d worked here five years ago, but he still held all the memories of the outpost and of his life before being imprisoned by Michael. He was Carson Beckett, and despite the occasional rearing ugly thought, he’d resolved to think of himself as _the_ Carson Beckett and not just some clone replacement.

Rodney was breathing heavily behind him, and Teyla and Ronon leaned forward into the wind next to him, holding onto two of Rodney’s boxes. Carson shook his head. He shouldn’t have let Ronon carry a box—the man wasn’t anywhere near top condition despite what he liked to pretend. And Teyla—she was barely over her cold. Any length of time in this weather and she could suffer a major setback.

John darted ahead, kicking snow up as he went and making a clear path for them to follow. He reached the door first, yanking on the handle.

“Dammit!”

His voice carried across the wind, and Carson felt a lance of apprehension race through him. He picked up speed and arrived at the door in time to see John drop the box he was carrying and grab the door with two hands. He jerked at it in vain then kicked the bottom in frustration.

“It’s locked?” Rodney asked as he, Ronon, and Teyla arrived.

“Yes,” John snapped. “They knew we were coming. Why the hell would they lock the door?”

A gust of wind whipped around them, and Carson bit his lip against the cold. It didn’t seem possible, but he swore the temperatures had dropped in the short trip from the jumper to the dome. He glanced over his shoulder at the distant mountains and saw the black clouds creeping closer.

“You guys wait here,” John said. “I’ll run back to the jumper and see if I can radio someone down there to—”

Carson flinched at the sudden burst of red that shot past him. When he looked at the door again, the frame near the handle was black and smoking, a gaping hole making the lock obsolete. He turned back in time to see Ronon pocketing his blaster with a smug look.

“I thought we talked about you not taking your gun off of Atlantis, big guy.” John pinned Ronon with a stare.

Ronon shrugged, not losing the grin. Another gust of wind showered them with icy snow pellets, and Carson leapt forward, shoving the door open and pushing his way inside out of the wind. The others followed quickly, sighing collectively at the abrupt change in temperature. John slammed the door shut, jamming a broken piece of the frame underneath it to keep it closed.

Rodney stepped forward toward the elevator, punching the down button a few times before swearing.

“What’s wrong?” Carson asked.

“It’s not working,” Rodney said. “There’s no power.”

“Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way,” John said. He pointed toward a narrow hallway that Carson knew led to the stairwell.

The group trudged forward without a word, Carson grabbing Ronon’s box out of his hands before the man injured himself further. The sound of their feet clanking against the metal steps echoed around them. It was a long hike down. Carson couldn’t remember exactly how many floors deep the outpost was, but by the time they reached the bottom, the freezing temperatures of the surface were all but forgotten. Sweat dripped down the side of his face, and he rubbed his sleeve over his forehead, unzipping his thick parka.

A short, narrow hallway connected the stairs back to the bottom of the elevator shaft, then opened up into a larger control room. When Carson had last been here, this room had been filled with tables and computers and consoles—a hundred different experiments and scientists all preparing for the adventure of a lifetime.

“Hello?” John yelled. His voice echoed around the large room. There were a few tables scattered around, but most of the equipment was wrapped in thick plastic. They spread out across the room, calling to the handful of scientists who should still be here, but the outpost appeared to be empty.

“That would explain why the door was locked,” Rodney said, dropping his box on the nearest table.

“They knew we were coming, though,” Carson said. He dropped his own box next to Rodney’s, then spotted a wide, padded bench and eased himself into it. He’d spent a lot of time relaxing on these benches the first time he’d been here. There’d been that one woman, too—what was her name? They’d spent hours chit-chatting on the padded bench just outside of the small infirmary area. She’d opted out of going on the expedition at the last minute and Carson had always wondered if—

“Sheppard,” Ronon yelled, jarring Carson out of his thoughts. The doctor scanned the room, seeing the man peer around a wide archway.

The chair room. He remembered that place, vividly.

“Is the chair here?” Rodney called out, running forward. The rest of the group followed him, and Carson pushed himself to his feet. By the time he caught up with them, they were all gathered around the chair platform, staring at the mangled heap of metal and Ancient tech sitting in the center.

“You know,” John finally said, “it sounded so much better on paper.” He set his box on the ground then stepped up onto the platform to circle the mess.

 _It is somewhat recognizable as a chair,_ Carson conceded. He could just make out the back rest and one arm, and he supposed someone could still technically _sit_ in it. Not comfortably, to be sure, but it was possible.

“Don’t touch it!” Rodney screamed, and John jerked back the hand he’d been reaching out toward it. “You could blow up the entire continent with the brush of a fingertip.”

John jumped back, raising his hands and stepping off the platform. “Not touching.”

Rodney left, returning a few seconds later with his box of supplies and dropping it on a table that had been pushed up against the wall. More plastic-covered Ancient equipment lay scattered against the wall in this room as well, and Carson and Teyla both dropped their boxes next to Rodney’s.

“The team obviously arrived,” Teyla said, pointing toward the chair. “Where have they gone?”

“Exactly what I was wondering,” John said. “There should be a dozen people here.”

“Maybe we just haven’t found them yet,” Ronon offered, but John shook his head.

“They knew we were coming. If they decided to leave, for whatever reason, McMurdo would know about it and they would have informed us before we left Atlantis. I don’t like this.”

“We’re on Earth,” Carson said, feeling apprehension twist through him. “How badly could things go here?”

Both John and Rodney sighed, shaking their head.

“What?”

“You’ve jinxed us,” Rodney said. “Don’t you know you’re never supposed to ask that question?”

“McKay’s right, doc,” John added. “Never taunt the gods of the universe.”

Carson stared perplexed, only slightly reassured when Teyla patted his arm.

“Ignore them,” she said. She turned to the others. “Should we not search this facility for the missing scientists?”

“Good plan,” John said.

“Wait!” Rodney spun around, a spare purple crystal in his hand. “What about the rest of my supplies?”

“If we find the others, then they can help us unload the jumper. In the meantime, you can get the elevator working.”

Rodney huffed, then turned back to his table and spread out his gear. “Or I could start working on the chair, which is why we’re here in the first place.”

“Hey, doc, you with us or you want to stick around and help McKay?”

Carson could hear Rodney muttering under his breath. He glanced at the mangled chair then back to John. “I think I’ll join you, Colonel. I’d like to see what state the infirmary has been left in at the very least, for when the _gods of the universe_ exact their revenge on us.”

“Let’s go, people,” John said with a grin. He turned to McKay. “If we had any radios I’d say keep in touch, but since we don’t, just scream really loudly if you need anything. And if you get a chance, maybe you can look around for spare radios.”

“Here, McKay,” Ronon added, slapping one of his knives on the workbench. “To protect yourself. But I want it back afterwards.”

“Brilliant,” Rodney muttered, waving them away without looking, and keeping all his attention focused on his laptop and the Ancient equipment, although he did slide the knife closer. Carson shook his head and followed the others out of the room and down the nearest hallway, ignoring the growing feeling that something was wrong and hoping Rodney wouldn’t actually have to use Ronon’s knife.

An hour later, he found himself digging through the measly supplies left in the infirmary and cursing Rodney for talking him out of bringing his medical bag down. He heard Teyla sneeze from down the hallway and grimaced—she was sounding much worse than she had that morning.

He tossed the handful of supplies he’d gathered onto the nearest countertop and stepped out into the hall, spotting Ronon, Teyla and John walking toward him. Teyla looked as pale as ever and was rubbing her fingers across her forehead. Ronon was slightly hunched over, one hand unconsciously moving to his still-healing stab wound.

 _What the hell was I thinking, letting those two come along?_ He stepped back into the infirmary, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol and a box of water bottles. It wouldn’t do much, but it was better than nothing. He really should run back up to the jumper and grab his bag.

“Hey, doc,” John said, pausing outside the doorway.

“Find anyone?”

John shook his head, running a hand through this hair. “No one.”

Carson fell into step beside them, remembering how busy the outpost had been the last time he’d been here. His memories of this place had been filled with people—Elizabeth, Rodney, Daniel Jackson, Peter Grodin, Aiden Ford. He bit back a sigh. So much had changed since then.

“We searched the entire outpost, including the four residential wings,” John was saying. “Most of the rooms are empty, but one wing looks lived in—other than the fact that there are no people here.”

Teyla sneezed, burying her hand in her arm at the last second. The sound reverberated down the hall, and she grabbed onto the wall.

“Bless you,” Carson responded automatically.

“Thank you—” she started to say, then stopped, throwing her head into the crook of her arm again and sneezing twice more.

“You okay?” John asked.

“I’m sorry. This weather does not seem to be helping my cold.”

By the time they reached the chair room, Teyla had sneezed at least three more times. Rodney shot her a look—a mixture of horror and _I told you so_ —as he grabbed something vaguely resembling a screw driver with a glowing fiber optic tip and walked around to the back of the chair. Carson set his box of water bottles on a table, grabbed one and then pushed Teyla toward the padded bench against the far wall, forcing her to sit as he checked her over.

“How’s it coming, McKay?” John asked.

“Just great,” McKay griped, his voice muffled under the chair. “Someone has clearly been messing with the crystal connections back here, but they had no idea what they were doing. I told them to wait for me, but what do I know? They’re Area 51 scientists after all, so clearly they know much more than lowly Rodney McKay.”

“So, the chair’s not fixed yet?”

Carson snapped his jaw shut, just barely stifling a bark of laughter. He handed Teyla the water bottle and some Tylenol, and saw her grinning at her two teammates. John had managed to keep his expression neutral, but the muscle in his cheek was already twitching. Rodney’s head shot up from behind the chair so fast Carson was surprised the scientist hadn’t pulled a muscle. A rush of heat flooded his face, turning the skin dark red as he ground his teeth.

John laughed, holding up his hands. “Kidding, McKay,” he said.

Carson shook his head then signaled Ronon over, shoving a water bottle and pack of Tylenol into the other man’s hands. Ronon took it without a word, swallowing the pills and half the bottle within seconds.

“Sheppard, I need you to bring the chair online for a second. I can’t do—Sheppard?”

Carson plopped down next to Teyla and looked around the chair room. Ronon was leaning against the doorframe, and he poked a thumb behind him. “Bathroom.”

“Honestly,” Rodney huffed, but he ducked back down behind the chair and continued working.

“We ready to get this party going?” John asked, waltzing back into the room a few minutes later. Rodney shot him a glare, which only made the colonel smile wider. How Teyla and Ronon put up with those two some days was beyond Carson.

“Just sit down,” Rodney ordered. He moved to the table and hunched over his laptop, immediately typing a hundred miles an hour. Carson leaned back against the wall and saw Teyla do the same. If only Ronon would sit down for a few minutes. His side had to be hurting him.

John eased into the chair, balancing precariously. To Carson’s surprise, the chair responded instantly, the back rest reclining. John slid back and blue lights lit up behind him, giving him a strange glowing aura.

He went rigid in the chair a second later, his knuckles turning white where he was gripping the one remaining armrest. Carson jumped up. He could feel the power in the room, like static electricity. John stared up at the ceiling, his eyes fixed, and Carson took a step toward him.

“John?”

* * *

Ronon was leaning against the door frame with his back to the chair when he heard Beckett cry out. He spun around in time to see Sheppard’s eyes bulge under the bright blue light of the Ancient chair. The too bright light—not that he had a lot of experience with the Ancient chair, but it was almost painful to look at directly.

He blinked, and the chair shut down. He felt his heart stutter in his chest, forgetting the pain in his side as he watched Sheppard stand up. The man’s arms and legs were stiff and his eyes blank as he took a step forward. Ronon pushed away from the door frame, feeling like something major had just happened and he’d missed it completely.

Beckett was already moving, screaming something at McKay. McKay yelled something back, and Teyla stood up from the bench she’d been resting on. Ronon ignored them all, his gaze focused on Sheppard. He couldn’t have been in the chair for more than fifteen seconds.

Something was wrong.

The doctor grabbed Sheppard by the arms before Ronon could do or say anything, and the touch seemed to be the catalyst for whatever the chair had started. Ronon watched, horrified, as Sheppard stiffened in Beckett’s grasp, his arms curling into his body and his legs collapsing beneath him. The doctor moved faster than Ronon would have given him credit for, easing Sheppard to the ground and laying him out well away from the chair.

Ronon forced his feet to move forward, around the chair to where his friend lay. He’d seen Sheppard suffer through convulsions once before, but that had been in the infirmary in Atlantis. There’d been doctors and nurses and every piece of medical equipment imaginable then, and Sheppard’s heart had still stopped. He reached a hand out just as Sheppard’s body relaxed its rigid posture, then snatched it back when his friend’s limbs began to shake and jerk.

“Doc?” he asked. Sheppard’s eyes were closed, but he could just see a sliver of white at the bottom of the lids. His eyes flickered rapidly back and forth, keeping time with the rhythmic spasming of his body.

“I don’t know,” Beckett answered, his voice terse but his attention focused completely on the man in front of him. He undid the snaps of Sheppard’s fleece pullover, then the buttons of his uniform top underneath, pulling the fabric away from around his neck.

Sheppard’s arms and legs slowed their movements, and Ronon sighed in relief only to watch the tension in the muscles ripple through him again. The heels of his boots beat against the floor in a mounting tempo, and Ronon slid over to pin his legs down.

“Don’t,” Beckett ordered, freezing Ronon in his tracks.

“Oh, God, what did I do?”

Ronon glanced up to see McKay and Teyla staring down at John with round eyes, their faces pale. They looked cold, but how could they be? A trickle of sweat dripped down Ronon’s back, heat and stifled panic flushing his skin. Beckett had slid his coat off and was shoving it under John’s head. Anger born of helplessness twisted through Ronon, and he bit his lip, fighting back the urge to yell at everyone and anyone as he watched.

Sheppard’s heart had stopped last time. He had _died_. His convulsions slowed again, only to pick up speed in an endlessly repeating cycle. Ronon could see a sheen of sweat on the man’s pale skin and Beckett was frowning at whatever he was feeling at the pulse point on his wrist.

 _How long is this going to go on for?_ He remembered McKay asking that before and he looked up at the doctor now to ask the same question. A bubble of froth had formed at the corner of Sheppard’s mouth, and Ronon noticed a distinctly bluish tint to his lips.

“Dammit,” Beckett swore. “Help me.”

Ronon didn’t have time to ask him what he was supposed to help with before the doctor was wrestling Sheppard onto his side. Ronon moved in, getting what Beckett was trying to do. Sheppard threw his head back, his eyes rolling under half-closed lids.

“Carson?” McKay whispered, but no one answered. It was all Ronon could do to keep Sheppard on his side without pinning the man’s flailing limbs down and causing more injury. Time stretched and distorted around him. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling suddenly lightheaded as a lifetime squeezed itself into a couple of minutes. He forced himself to take one deep breath, then another.

“Come on, Sheppard,” Ronon whispered, leaning closer to his friend. The convulsions died down slowly, but Ronon kept his hands on Sheppard to prevent him from rolling onto his back. Carson was leaning over the prone body, rubbing his back and whispering something.

Sheppard gasped, his arms flailing as he choked in a deep, desperate breath. No one moved, waiting. At the sound of Sheppard dragging in another rattling gasp, Ronon felt the tension in his gut uncoil.

“That’s it, lad, that’s it. Keep breathing.”

There was no way Sheppard was conscious, but Beckett kept talking to him like he was, encouraging him to continue breathing. To fight. He rubbed Sheppard’s back, and Ronon watched as the last of the muscle twitches disappeared. Sheppard was breathing loudly, his lungs trying to pull in more air than his mouth and throat could handle.

He bucked, suddenly, gagging then spitting up. It wasn’t much, but he kept coughing, and Beckett pulled him farther onto his side. Hours seemed to pass before Sheppard finally stopped gasping like a fish on dry land and settled into a deep sleep.

“Carson, is he okay?”

“Not exactly,” Beckett answered, finally looking up into McKay’s panicked face. “The seizure’s over, but we need to get him out of here, preferably back to Atlantis.”

“What happened?” Ronon asked, and he saw McKay flinch as if he’d been hit. He hadn’t meant it as an accusation and he shook his head at the look of guilt that flashed across the physicist’s face.

“I don’t know,” McKay mumbled. “My guess is something with the chair.”

“I don’t mean to imply you have any blame in this, but we really need to know what happened to him when he activated the chair,” Beckett said. “Maybe there’s something in your computer log that would help us out.”

It was needed information, but it also served to put McKay to work. Ronon watched the physicist pull himself away from Sheppard and hunker down to his computer. Beckett asked Teyla to gather what medical supplies she could from the small infirmary then turned to Ronon.

“We need to get him off this floor.”

Ronon scanned the room, spotting the wide bench Teyla had been sitting on earlier. “How about that?”

“Aye, that will do. We’ll also need some of the bedding from the living quarters. It’s chilly down here, and I want to keep him as warm as possible.”

The two of them managed to carry Sheppard’s dead weight over to the bench, rolling him on his side again just in case. Sheppard gave no sign of returning to consciousness anytime soon, so Ronon reluctantly stepped back, allowing the doctor to continue to monitor his vital signs while he ran off to fetch pillows and blankets from the nearest residential wing.

By the time he had returned, Teyla was back with the meager infirmary supplies. Within minutes, they had Sheppard comfortably ensconced in blankets. Beckett sat on the edge of the bench, holding onto Sheppard’s wrist and counting silently to himself. He nodded in satisfaction a minute later.

“I’ve cut all power to the chair,” McKay said, rubbing his hands together. It wasn’t cold down here, but the wave of heat Ronon had felt just a few minutes earlier was gone. “I’m not sure exactly what happened or why, but it looks like there was a massive energy spike as soon as Sheppard activated the chair.”

“Any idea how bad that storm was going to get? We really need to get him some medical care, or at least contact someone.” Beckett’s eyes shifted between them, looking for his answer. McKay was the only one other than Sheppard who’d read the weather report, but all he did was shrug. Beckett sighed. “I should have brought my medical bag with me. I can’t believe I left it sitting in the damn jumper…”

The doctor continued muttering as he fiddled with the blankets again, pulling them up over Sheppard’s shoulder then down again, not wanting to stifle him. If Sheppard were awake, he’d be pissed at the doctor’s hovering.

But he wasn’t awake.

“It’ll be awhile before he wakes up again. This is quite normal after what he just went through, I think.”

Ronon felt his heart thud again in his chest, and he stared at his friend lying unconscious on the bench. Sheppard looked vulnerable and helpless, and that pissed Ronon off. He pressed a hand against the blaster in his pocket, wondering just how angry McKay would be if he shot up the chair.

“We can check on the storm,” Teyla said, “and contact Atlantis from the jumper.”

“Aye, good idea, but don’t go out there if it’s really bad. I’ll look around here for any radios or computers—anything to contact the outside world.”

Ronon nodded, and he and Teyla turned toward the stairwell that would take them to the surface. Ronon stopped, tightening his hands into fists. They were stuck—isolated from anyone that could help, alone, and with an injured teammate. This was why he needed to learn science, or medicine. Something useful. Life had been simpler as a runner—not easier, but definitely simpler. Run. Fight. Kill. Run again.

But Atlantis and all that came with living there was rife with complications and layers of complexity. Ronon had been good in school as a boy, and he might have once pursued science. Maybe not as a career, but it had always struck him as something good to know. Melena had opened up a whole new world to him when it came to medicine, of being able to help people beyond just the battlefield triage he’d learned in training.

He and Teyla were halfway up the stairs when his side twinged, a sharp lance of pain that caused his knees to buckle. He grabbed onto the railing, grunting, and just managed to stop himself from falling flat on his face. He reached around with his other hand and grabbed at his side, breathing shallowly until the pain ebbed.

“Ronon?” Teyla’s hand on his arm forced him to look up.

“It’s okay,” he said, gritting his teeth when the slight movement pulled at still healing skin and muscles. He’d give just about anything to rip apart with his bare hands the Wraith who’d done this to him.

“Ronon, you have been guarding your side all day.”

“We’re almost at the top, right?”

They were maybe two thirds of the way there. He knew exactly how far they had to go, and Teyla knew he knew, but she gave in, stepping back and letting him straighten up. He took a couple of deeper breaths, satisfied that the flare of pain had passed, then continued up.

The storm outside was gusting. He could hear the faint whistle of air through cracks in the door, and tendrils of ice cold crept around him. The jumper wasn’t that far, and they should have been able to see it easily through the window in the door, but the world outside was a blur of rushing white.

“We would not make it to the jumper in that wind,” Teyla said, pressing her face against the cold glass. “Not to mention the cold.”

“Guess we’re stuck here for a little while longer,” Ronon responded. He moved back to the stairwell and sat down on the top step. They’d climbed a lot of stairs and he had to admit, his legs were almost shaking with exhaustion. He was in no shape for this much activity. Not yet.

Damn Wraith.

Teyla dropped next to him, leaning against the wall, and she looked about as tired and miserable as he felt. She rubbed a hand across her forehead, closing her eyes.

“How are you doing?”

She didn’t open her eyes, but she did turn toward him. “I was feeling better earlier, but I am beginning to wonder if I should have stayed on Atlantis after all.”

“Maybe we all should have stayed on Atlantis,” he muttered.

Teyla sighed, sitting up then scrunching forward again to rest her head on her knees. She’d been pretty sick a few days earlier—Ronon had seen her around the infirmary. Between the headache and the sinus congestion, he imagined she wanted nothing more than to lay down in a soft, warm bed. Now that he was thinking about it, that wasn’t sounding like too bad of a plan. Despite what McKay liked to think about him, Ronon did appreciate and take advantage of the luxuries in life.

If they could just get back to Atlantis.

“Ready?” he asked, pulling himself carefully to his feet. He glanced over at Teyla and saw her sigh, visibly collecting herself before reaching a hand up to him. He took it, pulling her to her feet.

“I wish we could at least get Carson’s bag for him,” she said, glancing behind her. Ronon couldn’t see the small window in the door anymore, but he could still hear the wind.

“Not a chance.”

He led the way, climbing back down the stairs to the outpost. There was no sense waiting at the top of the stairs, and McKay and Beckett would want to know how bad that storm was. Plus, there were beds downstairs, and maybe even warm food. His stomach growled at the thought and he picked up his pace.

* * *

John woke up nearly an hour after sitting in the chair, and while Carson had tried to tell them it was perfectly normal for someone to sleep that long after a major seizure, Teyla could tell he’d been growing increasingly anxious. John had done little more than groan and wave a hand toward his head, slurring something about a headache and feeling sick before drifting back to sleep again.

Carson had ordered both her and Ronon to sit down and rest as soon as they had returned from checking out the storm, but they’d been sitting there for too long. Another hour passed, and Carson had eventually broken out MRE meals for all of them, which they ate in silence as they waited for the storm to abate. Teyla stood, stretching her lower back, and gathered her and Ronon’s empty meal packages. Carson was talking quietly to Rodney as they both stared at his laptop.

She made her way over to John’s side and sat down on the edge of the bench. He was still on his side, wrapped in blankets. He was pale, and she wondered if he was cold. She pressed a hand against his cheek and nodded at the warmth, then wrapped the blanket more tightly around him. Rodney had been searching for anything they could use to contact Atlantis, but all the communication equipment had been gutted for reasons none of them could even begin to fathom. They weren’t just stuck here; they were cut off from any possible help as well.

She felt another sneeze building up, so she tilted her face toward the ceiling with her eyes closed. The pressure in her sinuses was relentless and growing worse. The Tylenol Carson had given her had hardly put a dent in her throbbing headache. As much as she’d wanted to get off Atlantis, she would do just about anything to get back there now. She wanted to do nothing more than curl up in a warm bed. If only the Daedalus was on Earth and not still traveling halfway between galaxies.

She shivered then sighed when the urge to sneeze dissipated, and she was about to stand up when she heard a soft groan. She glanced down in time to see the muscles in John’s face twitch as he gradually woke up.

“John,” she whispered, pushing back a few stray strands of hair.

His eyes fluttered as he struggled to wake up, and he moaned again. Teyla glanced up at Carson and Rodney and saw the doctor was already making his way toward them.

“John,” she called out again, rubbing his arm. Carson kneeled down in front of them, and she scooted back to give the doctor some room.

“What?” John mumbled. He finally opened his eyes, only to slam them shut again and turn his head into the pillow.

“Wake up a little, Colonel,” Carson called out, grabbing John’s arm and giving it a small shake.

“…mmmwwake…”

“John, I need you to open your eyes.”

“Headache…sssickkkk…” he slurred, but he rolled onto his back and peered up at the doctor.

Teyla bit her lip, feeling a sick twisting in her stomach at the look of confusion on John’s face. His eyes were glassy, and his eyelids kept drooping down. Carson shook his arm again, earning a scowl.

“What happened?” John asked, sounding a little more awake. His voice was still barely above that of a whisper, and he’d made no move to sit up.

“You had a seizure after sitting in the chair.” Carson spoke calmly, but dread filled Teyla’s stomach like a cold pit and she reached a hand out to grab onto John’s leg buried under blankets.

“What? Don’t…don’t remmmbbrr…”

“Easy, lad—slow deep breaths,” Carson continued, unfazed by the growing panic and confusion twisting across John’s face. “When you sat in the chair, you received a massive jolt that caused a seizure.”

“Chair…remember chair…where are we?”

“We are still at the outpost on Antarctica,” Teyla answered. She shivered again, forcing the feeling of creeping despair to the back of her mind.

“Seizure?”

“Aye, lad.”

John pushed at the blankets, attempting to sit up, but he collapsed back onto the makeshift bed a second later, breathing heavily. Teyla watched Carson’s face, and while the doctor looked worried, he didn’t look panicked. He reached under the bench and emerged with a water bottle, which he unscrewed and held to John’s lip.

“Try to take a few sips. It’s normal to feel weak and sore after such a major episode. You’ll be back to your old self in a couple of days.”

John let Carson support his head and sipped at the water, stopping after only a few swallows. His eyes were starting to drift closed again, and he was trembling slightly under the blankets. Carson set the water down, then wrapped him back up in the blanket.

“Headache…” John mumbled.

“I know, John. There’s not much I can give you for that now. Try to get some rest—we’ll have you back in Atlantis as soon as the storm overhead clears out.”

Teyla leaned forward, watching as John settled back to sleep. “Carson?”

“He’s well enough for now,” the doctor replied. “The sooner we can get him out of here the better, but he should recover just fine eventually.”

She nodded but she didn’t feel reassured. She saw Ronon push himself to his feet from across the room and glance her way. Their eyes met and she nodded again, walking over to her parka.

“Ronon and I will check on the storm again,” she said, zipping up her coat. Carson looked like he was about to protest, but he shrugged and turned back to his patient. Teyla looked over at Rodney, who’d remained hunched over his laptop the entire time. She knew him well enough to recognize he was feeling guilty over John’s condition, and nothing she said would appease that for now.

“Rodney, it would be helpful to get the elevator working again. If the storm has passed and we need to move John to the jumper…”

“Right,” he answered, shifting away from the laptop to dig through a box of tools.

He said nothing more. Teyla glanced over at John’s sleeping form one last time then left, heading toward the stairwell with Ronon close on her heels. They climbed in silence, taking the steps more slowly than last time. Ronon was still walking stiffly and her congestion had moved into her upper chest, making it feel like she was breathing against a heavy weight.

“Sheppard will be okay,” Ronon said halfway up the stairs.

“Yes, he will,” she responded, “but watching him suffer like that was very… unsettling. There is something wrong in this place, but I cannot pinpoint it.”

“Know what you mean,” Ronon grunted out.

She glanced at him and though his eyes were focused on taking one step after another, he looked like he was a thousand miles away, lost in thought. They climbed the rest of the stairs without speaking and as they hit the top step she realized she couldn’t hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the door like she had before. Perhaps the storm had died down after all.

She darted forward, the hope of reaching the jumper renewing her energy. When she pressed her face against the square of glass in the door, she smiled. The wind was still blowing, but the worst of the storm had clearly passed. She looked over at Ronon and saw him grinning in relief.

“The storm has mostly passed,” she said. She stepped back to allow him to look out the window.

“We should grab the doc’s bag while we’re up here,” he said. “See if we can reach Atlantis.”

They whipped the door open and stepped out into the biting cold. The wind might have died down, but the temperatures were still unbearably icy. Drifts of snow had built up between the dome and the jumper, masking their footsteps from earlier.

“Let’s go,” Ronon yelled. He ducked his head and began to run, shuffling his feet through the snow and ice.

Teyla followed, wrapping her arms around her body to hold onto to the little bit of warmth she still had. Tentacles of cold snuck under her parka, wrapping themselves around her stomach and squeezing away any heat. She flashed suddenly to Ronon choking out his last breath on the hive before going deathly still, then to John convulsing on the floor of the outpost as his lips grew blue from lack of oxygen. The cold penetrated farther, weaving around her heart and filling her with horror.

Horror. Cold. Decay. Death.

Through the stuffy pressure of congestion and sinus headaches, she finally recognized what she was feeling. What she had been feeling the entire time she’d been on this outpost.

 _Wraith._

“Ronon!” she yelled out, stopping immediately. A gust of wind ripped the sound of her voice away and carried it off toward the distant mountains. Ronon had kept running and was now several dozen feet ahead of her. She forced her legs to move again, to pump toward her teammate and the jumper.

Ronon slowed down before she reached him, raising his arm and pointing toward the jumper. He looked confused and exhausted. “Thought we closed the jumper hatch,” he yelled out over the wind.

Teyla ran faster, spotting the open jumper. They had closed the hatch. “Wraith!” she screamed again. This time, Ronon’s eyes opened wide and he spun toward their ship, one hand digging into the pocket of his parka.

The Wraith appeared out of nowhere, flying at them from the side. She screamed again, but Ronon was already spinning, still struggling to pull his blaster out of his coat pocket. The Wraith was thin, its wiry body sliding through the ice and snow with ease. Its face looked paler than usual, but that might have had more to do with being outside in Antarctica’s winter. Its stringy white hair fluttered behind it as it ran, and Teyla just caught a glimpse of bright yellow eyes and a long thin goatee before the creature plowed into Ronon.

The two of them seemed to move in slow motion. Ronon flew through the air, impacting the ground with a sickening crunch and throwing his head back as he screamed. Teyla ran forward, still too far away to help him as the Wraith climbed easily to its feet. She didn’t have a weapon on her and wished she had a knife at the very least. But who could have predicted a Wraith would be wandering around Antarctica—around _Earth_?

The Wraith snarled, twitching its head and throwing its long hair behind it. It raised its feeding hand and stepped toward Ronon, who was still lying on the ground.

“Ronon!”

The Wraith paused, glancing at her before turning back to her teammate. In the split second that took, Ronon managed to free his blaster. He pointed and shot, and Teyla felt her legs go rubbery in relief as the Wraith caught the red bolt directly in the chest. It stumbled and fell onto its back, lying still.

Ronon had raised his head enough to fire his gun, but once the immediate threat of the Wraith was gone, he lay back down in the snow. Teyla rushed past the Wraith’s body and slid to a stop next to her teammate.

“Ronon, where are you hurt?”

The Satedan’s face had gone deathly pale, and she felt her heart beginning to pound at the memory of the last time he’d looked up at her like that.

“Side,” he mumbled. He dropped his gun then fumbled at his coat, pressing a hand into his ribs over the same spot he’d been stabbed on the hive. He shivered, and Teyla scrunched down as a gust of wind kicked up the snow around them. The jumper was only a couple dozen feet away, and the rear hatch was still open. She glanced at it, then back to the dome entrance.

Ronon grunted as he tried to sit up, and Teyla reached around him, easing him up into a sitting position. He swayed, listing to the side, and she felt him go lax in her arms. She glanced back at the jumper and saw the Wraith’s legs twitch out of the corner of her eye.

“How is that possible?” she mumbled. She shook Ronon’s body, but his head hung on his neck and he made no response.

The Wraith was rolling onto its side and pushing itself up to its feet. Teyla scanned the ground for Ronon’s blaster, but in the growing darkness and continuously blowing snow, she couldn’t see it. It couldn’t be far, but the Wraith was shaking its head and growling.

She grabbed Ronon under his arms and began to drag him toward the jumper, cringing at the damage that was probably doing to his stab wound. She had no time for anything else. She pushed through the snow, feeling her legs burn at the effort. Her eyes watered at the wind blowing around her, and the storm seemed to pick up its intensity in the short time it took her to drag Ronon to the back of the jumper.

She climbed the ramp and deposited him inside, then ran back outside. The Wraith was standing up and walking toward her, a round jagged hole in the center of its leather shirt sliding over bloodless, whole skin. She thought she caught a glimpse of Ronon’s blaster half buried in snow, but the Wraith snarled, moving faster and she backed up into the jumper. The rear hatch lifted up, its progress too slow.

Teyla knelt down next to Ronon, digging through his coat until she found the hilt of a knife. She grabbed it and lunged toward the rear hatch just as the Wraith reached it. The door was almost closed, but the creature howled as it tried to climb through the closing gap. Teyla slashed at it, the tip of the blade catching the Wraith directly below the black markings on one of its cheeks.

It screamed and flung itself backward, and the door closed with a solid thump, plunging Teyla and Ronon into dark silence. The jumper was cold, but the shelter from the wind caused instant relief. Teyla stepped back, palming the control pad near the back hatch and bringing the lights and the heat up in the small rear cabin. She flinched at the sound of the Wraith banging against the wall of the jumper, and she returned to the control pad and locked the jumper from the inside.

They were safe, for the moment. Teyla knelt down next to Ronon and unzipped his coat, cringing at the blood sticking to the side of his shirt. He groaned at her prodding but didn’t wake up. As she dug through Carson’s medical bag, the Wraith stopped banging against the rear hatch and Teyla glanced up. The view out the front window showed a blur of white and black as night descended on Antarctica.

How had she not sensed the Wraith earlier? Her head throbbed at the thought, renewing its pounding. If she’d been healthy, and if she’d paid attention to the subtle signs, she would have sensed the creature. She would have known it was there. She pressed a bandage against Ronon’s side, wondering how the Wraith had even reached Antarctica in the first place.

The hive. It was the only explanation. John had told her about the battle against the darts and the attack against Area 51. One of the darts could have flown to Antarctica, either on purpose or because of some damage it had received during the battle, and who would have noticed it? It also explained the lack of scientists around the outpost. She shivered, remembering how quickly the Wraith had healed after taking a direct hit from Ronon’s gun. It had fed recently. It had fed a lot.

Teyla glanced toward the rear hatch, wishing she could see where the Wraith was. She felt another wave of cold dread wash over her. Now that the Wraith knew they were here, it would likely investigate the outpost again.

And she had no way of warning Carson, Rodney, or John.

* * *

Rodney sat cross-legged at the base of the elevator and stared at the knot of wires hanging from the power box. Half the wires were actually missing. No wonder there was no power to it. He twirled the knife Ronon had left with him in one hand and rested his head in his other hand.

He should be working on the chair. That was why they were here in the first place. He closed his eyes, then jerked them open when the first image to pop into his head was Sheppard spasming on the ground.

 _That was your his fault,_ a voice whispered in his ear. His fist tightened on the knife until his knuckles turned white. No matter how much he tried to deny it, the nagging voice of guilt was unremitting, chipping away at him. Carson said he would be fine, but he clearly wasn’t—he was lying unconscious in the other room, mumbling every so often about being in pain and sick.

Rodney sighed and popped another panel off the power box, then began reconnecting wires. At first glance, it had looked about as messed up as the chair and the few computers they’d found in the outpost, but it wasn’t completely destroyed. It took some time reconnecting the wires still on the box, and a bit more time hunting through the remains of the equipment in the large room adjacent to the chair room to find replacement parts.

A few of the missing parts looked familiar, but it took crafting a makeshift work-around to the part of the elevator’s control console that was damaged beyond immediate repair before he recognized them. They were connected to the chair now.

“Stupid, moronic, damn Area 51 scientists,” he muttered, but there was another part of him shaking his head, letting the scientists off the hook. They wouldn’t have done that. Pulling apart every piece of technical equipment in the outpost and then sticking it into the chair? That was too weird.

 _But then, who had?_ The whole situation was… bizarre. He glanced back at the chair room, past the mangled mess of Ancient tech to where Beckett was kneeling next to Sheppard again, checking him over. The man was always bad at the whole hovering thing, but he was in prime mode at the moment.

His gaze drifted back to the chair, now upright and quiet, looking oh-so-innocuous. A pang of guilt flashed through his chest, followed by fear. Something was going on here. The half-destroyed chair, Sheppard’s seizure, the broken elevator, all the other damaged computers and equipment. They were all connected, each a single spoke to a wheel encompassing the entire situation.

All he was missing was the hub—the central link that would give shape to the wheel and explain everything. He could feel it even though he couldn’t see it. It was right there, just out of reach, and when he finally figured out what that missing, key piece of information was, he’d kick himself at its obviousness.

“In the meantime…” he muttered. He stood up and threw the switch that would flood the elevator with power again and stepped back, then tilted his head at the immediate whirling sound of an engine starting up. The cables in the elevator shaft began to move.

At least he could still fix _something_ while they were here. He glanced over the console and saw the flashing signal that indicated the elevator car was on its way down.

“Carson, the elevator’s working,” he called out. He heard the doctor give some reply, but he kept his gaze focused on the console. His repair job was doing the job, but it certainly wasn’t permanent. He probably should have warned Ronon and Teyla not to use the elevator to come down in case it shorted out halfway and plunged them to their deaths.

 _God, why do I think of things like that?_ He shook his head, searching for some other horrible image to replace the one of a flattened Teyla and Ronon. Any horrible image.

The elevator moved steadily, settling on its base then powering down. Rodney rubbed the hand once again gripping Ronon’s knife across his forehead at the sudden sheen of sweat breaking out. Now all he had to do was not think of all of them pancaked at the bottom of the elevator shaft after trying to go back up.

Maybe he would take the stairs.

The doors slid open and he looked over at his teammates. It took a second for his brain to register the fact that he was only seeing one person step out toward him rather than two, and that they didn’t have thick, brown dreadlocks but long, flowing white hair, pointed rotting teeth, and iridescent yellow slivers for eyes.

“Oh, sh—”

The Wraith slammed its hand into his chest, sending him flying ten feet in the air and cutting off his half scream of pure panic. What little oxygen remaining in his lungs whooshed out of him as he hit the ground and slid along the floor another ten feet. He was vaguely aware of the knife flying from his hand and clattering across the floor behind him, and fully aware of the Wraith walking toward him.

“Rodney!”

He heard Carson yelling, but black spots were dancing across his vision and obscuring the Wraith that was _still coming at him._ He clambered backward, too stunned to think about rolling onto his feet and running, about his lungs refusing to expand and let him breathe, or about the six or seven cracked vertebrae _at least_ in his back.

The Wraith was tall and thin, with a thin sliver of a goatee hanging off its chin. It also had a round hole in the center of its shirt. Rodney crab-walked toward the chair room and whimpered in panic or pain—pain, definitely pain—when his shoulder hit the doorframe and halted his momentum.

The Wraith grinned wider, the expression twisting the narrow black markings on its cheek. Rodney suddenly recognized the crispy round hole in the creature’s shirt, but the momentary flare of hope that Ronon would suddenly pop out of the elevator or stairwell with his blaster was squashed by the sight of perfectly healed skin underneath.

Four shots rang out in quick succession, and Rodney flinched then screamed at the hand suddenly grabbing him by the arm. He looked down at his chest and pressed a hand into his orange fleece pullover. No hole. That meant the Wraith hadn’t fed on him, even for a split second. Just hit him really hard.

He’d have to add broken ribs and bruised heart and lungs to his growing list of possible injuries. The hand tugged on this arm again, and he finally connected it to Carson’s voice, screaming at him.

“Get up, Rodney. Move!”

The Wraith was lying on the ground in the middle of the large room but it was moving already. He grabbed onto Carson’s arm and pulled himself to his feet just as the Wraith sat up and stared at the bullet wounds in its body. A second later, they dissolved to nothing and the Wraith jumped to its feet with a snarl.

Carson shot it again and again and again, too fast for Rodney to count. A few of the bullets dinged off the walls and floor, but most hit their mark. The Wraith staggered at each impact but it wasn’t going down. Rodney grabbed Carson’s arm and pulled him backward into the chair room.

They had to get out of here. Find cover. Hide. Sheppard—they had to get—

The gun clicked, the last of its bullets gone. Rodney felt his legs begin to waver and he fought the urge to just sit down and let the end come quickly. Carson needed no more prodding and the two of them continued to back up, hitting Rodney’s work table against the far wall, then sliding to the side, toward Sheppard and somewhat behind the cover of the broken chair.

The Wraith knew it had them, and yet it hesitated and turned back toward the elevator shaft. Rodney heard pounding footsteps a moment later, then caught a hurtling mass of black right before it plowed into the Wraith, catching the creature around the waist and sending both of them skidding across the chair room floor.

 _Sheppard._

They rolled twice, Sheppard ending up on top of the Wraith. He’d barely pushed himself up before the Wraith grabbed his collar and flung him to the side. Sheppard was all limp arms and legs, his head hanging from his neck. Rodney wondered if he was conscious, then wondered how he’d managed to even get out of bed in the first place.

Carson was yelling again, still pointing his useless, bullet-less gun. The Wraith flipped Sheppard onto his back and Rodney’s eyes drifted to the back of the chair then to the Wraith. The last piece of information clicked in his mind, the hub dropping into place and the wheel taking shape.

The Wraith grabbed Sheppard’s already loosened fleece pullover and uniform shirt and ripped it down, exposing his chest. Rodney heard Sheppard moan, flailing his arms weakly. Without thinking, he slid to the back of the chair and mentally traced the insane modifications he was sure the Wraith had made, and all the data that hadn’t made sense before was suddenly crystal clear.

“I know what you were trying to do!” he yelled, sitting up to peer around the chair. The Wraith was poised over Sheppard, its feeding hand raised. Rodney plowed forward, trying not to look at his friend writhing on the ground. “The chair—you messed with it. You were trying to send a message to Pegasus—your galaxy.”

The Wraith paused glancing up at him, then narrowed its eyes.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” McKay asked. In his mind, he screamed at Sheppard to move but the man was only semi-conscious now and did little more than twitch his foot. “Let us go, or I’ll destroy the chair and your only chance at contacting your people.”

“You would never allow such a message to be sent,” the Wraith glared.

“Sure we would…Leonard. Can I call you Leonard?” He cringed as his voice broke. He’d meant to sound like a smartass, but damn it, that was a lot harder to do than Sheppard made it seem.

The Wraith growled, baring its teeth. Maybe they hated being called names? He should have thought of that before he’d decided to call it Leonard, but that had been the first name to pop into his head and how was he supposed to think straight under these conditions? Leonard glanced at the chair then down at Sheppard, and Carson seemed to have frozen into a statue.

“You understand the technology of the Enemy?” Leonard asked.

Rodney’s mind stuttered. The enemy… The Ancients? “I’ve been staring at the chair for hours trying to figure out what was done to it. It seems totally obvious now, but I didn’t realize there was a _Wraith_ hanging around. Let us go, or I destroy it.”

The Wraith smiled— _smiled_ —and Rodney felt his heart drop as it jerked Sheppard to a sitting position. It was kneeling on one knee, and it leaned Sheppard against his other leg. Rodney watched Sheppard’s eyes flutter—he was awake but not really coherently awake. The Wraith dropped its feeding hand, then carefully placed it over the bare skin of Sheppard’s chest visible through the ripped clothing.

“What are you doing?” Carson barked out, breaking his impersonation of a statue as his hands and the gun he was still holding began to shake.

“You will complete the modifications I started, or I will feed.”

Rodney froze, his eyes riveted to the feeding hand over Sheppard’s chest. There were a handful of tools around the chair, maybe enough to finish the Wraith’s modifications and build a transmitter strong enough to send a power signal to Pegasus. The power burst that had surged through Sheppard and sent him into convulsions wasn’t even close to the amount of energy they would need to reach Pegasus, and who was supposed to activate it then? It would kill any of them instantly.

And could he really help the Wraith send a signal that would bring all the Wraith to the Earth? Sheppard would say no, even if it meant he had to have his life sucked dry to prevent it.

Leonard snarled and pressed its hand into Sheppard’s chest. Sheppard stiffened, and his hands clawed at the ground as a choked cry gurgled out of his throat. Rodney heard Carson gasp, then saw a thin rivulet of blood drip down from under the feeding hand. Sheppard’s eyes widened then rolled into the back of his head, and his entire body went lax.

It had fed—for no more than a split second, and maybe just enough to break the skin—but it wouldn’t take much to push the Wraith into completing the process. It stared at Rodney, waiting for a response.

Rodney swallowed, feeling suddenly like his throat was closing off and he was going to pass out. He rubbed a hand across his chest. “Okay, okay—I’ll do it. Just… just let him go.”

The Wraith bared its teeth but tightened its grip on Sheppard’s unconscious body. Rodney pulled in a deep breath, and felt more than saw Carson scoot closer to him. He reached down for the nearest tool then raised it, showing the Wraith he was starting to work.

* * *

Carson lost track of time kneeling next to Rodney. The Wraith had hardly moved, but it continued to hold onto John as tightly as ever. John was mercifully unconscious but still in no condition to be subjected to even a small amount of the Wraith feeding process. Carson held the gun in a white-knuckled grip, but no amount of mental coaxing could get his fingers to loosen their hold.

Rodney was muttering under his breath beside him, doing something to the back of the chair. He had the bottom panel pulled off and was reconnecting and reattaching various wires and crystals and who knew what else. He couldn’t possibly be doing what the Wraith wanted—building a signal that would bring Wraith hordes rampaging toward Earth. His throat tightened, intending to ask him what he thought he was doing, but no sound emerged.

He glanced back at the Wraith and John, and realized that Rodney might actually be doing exactly what the vile creature wanted. Was the situation really all that different from what Michael had forced him to do not so long ago? The motivation was the same—save whoever was immediately in front of you from dying by Wraith feeding.

The Wraith shifted slightly and Carson caught flashes of pale skin through the holes in its shirt. He’d shot the creature almost a dozen times, and Ronon had apparently shot him as well, yet the Wraith—Leonard—had healed itself almost instantly.

“You’ve fed recently,” he murmured and he tried not to think of the implications that had for Ronon and Teyla. The fact that it had been shot by Ronon, and yet there was no sign of either him or Teyla…

Carson swallowed and forced himself to focus on the here and now. He couldn’t think about anything else. The Wraith grimaced, its upper lip twitching. “Word of Lantean defiance has reached all levels of my people, yet those fools cowered at my sight. Never have we seen such a rich and plentiful feeding ground—ours for the taking.”

“The other scientists? You fed on _all_ of them?”

The Wraith didn’t respond, but Carson already knew the answer. It explained the abandoned outpost. The way the place looked lived in yet wasn’t. He could imagine they would have cowered at the sudden appearance of a Wraith in Antarctica. But Teyla and Ronon? They would have fought to their dying breath.

A small ember of hope burned in his chest. Maybe they hadn’t been fed on. Maybe they’d somehow escaped the Wraith. If Rodney could just work a little longer, maybe they would surprise Leonard and attack him from behind. Maybe that had been Rodney’s plan all along.

He glanced over at the physicist, following the movement of his hands as he worked, but Carson had no idea what to look for. He wouldn’t know the difference between Rodney actually fixing the chair to Rodney pretending to fix the chair. Whatever his friend was doing, his attention was entirely focused on the task. His occasional glance toward Leonard and John only caused him to clench his jaw and bend closer toward the open panel.

John moaned, the soft sound shattering the silence. Carson shook his head, willing John to stay unconscious. The Wraith glanced down at his hostage then back at Rodney, his focus entirely on the chair modifications. John’s legs kicked against the ground, his eyelids fluttering as he rose closer to consciousness.

Carson stared at him, hoping John would see him before he noticed the Wraith bending over him, holding him in place with its feeding hand. John’s head rolled against the Wraith’s leg and his body tensed as he tried then failed to sit up.

“What?” he asked, opening his eyes completely.

Leonard ignored him, although Carson swore it pressed its hand harder into John. John looked down at the hand on his chest, then followed its arm up to its face. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to scream, choking on the cry that finally emerged.

“Colonel!” Carson yelled. Beside him, Rodney jerked and sat up, peering around the edge of the chair to where John lay.

John’s already pale face had turned another shade of white, and he was panting heavily, his eyes locked on that of the Wraith’s. He flailed arms and legs, and managed to bring a hand up to pull at the Wraith’s wrist, but Carson could see the trembling in his fingers from where he was kneeling.

“Colonel, lad. Look at me,” Carson called out, forcing his voice to sound calm but not entirely convinced he’d pulled it off. He glanced down at the gun in his hand—John’s gun. Their only gun. If there were more bullets, he didn’t know where they were, and there wasn’t anything resembling a weapon within easy reach.

John moaned again, clawing at the feeding hand over his chest and not even causing a scratch. He’d already suffered through a major seizure, and that alone would have left him in a weakened condition—too weak to take on a satiated Wraith.

“John, please, look at me,” Carson said again, and this time his voice finally seemed to reach the colonel. John turned his head toward the doctor and Carson winced at the look of pure terror in his eyes. “You need to stay calm—relaxed. We’ll get you out of this, okay?”

The words sounded trite, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. The Wraith growled, spurring Rodney to return to his work, but otherwise it ignored John and Carson. John’s breathing had slowed from its frantic pace, and his hands dropped to his side, but Carson had the distinct impression that that was more in response to a pervasive exhaustion than anything he was saying.

John sagged against the Wraith’s leg, blinking heavy eyes. He was still pale, his gaze unfocused and staring at the far wall. He was awake but sinking rapidly into unconscious—or shock, or catatonia. Carson couldn’t tell which from where he was, but he breathed a sigh of relief as John slipped further from awareness. At least he wouldn’t suffer for hours, waiting for Leonard to finally follow through on its feeding threat.

He glanced at Rodney and prayed the physicist had some kind of plan to get them all out of this.

* * *

Ronon woke up abruptly, his hands and arms flailing as he tried to sit up and roll. He remembered the Wraith, and the hive, and the way the knife had slid through skin and muscle to the vital organs underneath. The floor dropped out from under him and he fell, slamming into a solid surface a second later. Pain erupted in his side, the blood welling up and soaking into his clothes, and he groaned at the onslaught as he pounded his fists into the ground.

When the agony began to abate, he opened his eyes to see a dark rough floor take shape underneath him. He stared at it, perplexed. It should have been smooth and light gray. It should have smelled like rotting vegetation. It should have been rumbling underneath his fingertips, the telltale sign of a ship in space.

“Ronon!”

Teyla?

He blinked open his eyes and lifted his head to look at her, but a sharp stab in the still bleeding wound stopped him short and he lowered his head back to the ground with a stifled groan.

“Ronon, are you alright?”

He forced his head to turn to the side. He could see Teyla’s leg kneeling next to him, her hands pushing into his back and pulling his clothes away from the raw burning under his right arm. Behind her, he saw a bench and netting hanging from the ceiling.

He was in the jumper. Memories of the last week rushed back to him, and he had to close his eyes to stem the tide of emotion lumping in his throat. He’d survived the attack on the hive, Sheppard had come back for him, they’d escaped. He’d spent most of the last week recuperating in the infirmary.

They were on Earth—Antarctica. Teyla was still talking to him but her words washed over him, incomprehensible. He was in the jumper. The outpost had been kind of cold, and the raging storm beyond freezing. The jumper, though, was warm and safe. At that exact moment, he quite possibly loved these little flying ships more so even than Sheppard.

“Ronon?”

It was Teyla’s concern more than what she was saying that finally forced him to pay attention to her. He looked over to see her bending over him, her eyes bright and anxious.

“Hey,” he mumbled.

“Can you move? We need to get you back on the bench so I can look at your injury.”

He pushed himself up with his hands without responding and would have collapsed back to the ground if Teyla hadn’t grabbed him around the chest and lifted. With her help, he managed to climb back onto the bench. He immediately stretched out onto his back, closing his eyes against the floating black motes and the sudden urge to throw up. His side screamed in agony.

“Ronon?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he whispered.

“Your wound is bleeding again. I need to put a bandage on it but it will hurt.”

He nodded, thinking it couldn’t really hurt that much more than dying on the hive had hurt, but he was wrong. He bit his lip at the cry of pain that slipped out as she pushed into his side.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain eased. He sucked in a couple of breaths and let it out through his nose, and only opened his eyes again when he felt a warm hand on the side of his face.

“What happened?” he asked, because he remembered Antarctica and the storm and Sheppard getting sick, but not much else.

Teyla sighed, looking helpless and scared—not a look he was used to seeing on the Athosian woman. “You were attacked by a Wraith when we were running toward the jumper, and you have reinjured your side.”

Wraith? So there _had_ been a Wraith. He vaguely recalled something flying toward him through falling snow. He lifted his head to look around, but Teyla pushed him back easily. She grabbed the parka off the other bench and bundled it up, then shoved it under his head.

“It is gone,” she was saying. “We were able to reach the jumper and close the rear hatch. The Wraith cannot get to us here.”

“Sheppard?” he asked. He’d meant to include Beckett and McKay in that question, but that took too much effort, and he hoped Teyla understood the other two were implied. She usually did.

“They are still down below in the outpost. I fear the Wraith will go after them now that it knows we are here, and we have no way of warning them.”

“Radios?”

She shook her head. “We did not carry radios with us when we went down to the outpost—we did not believe it would be necessary. There are spare radios here, but we have no way of reaching Rodney or Carson, and I have been unable to raise Atlantis or anyone else.”

“Where’s my gun?” he asked and started to roll off the bench again. His side erupted in flames and he grunted, letting Teyla push him back down.

“You have been unconscious for more than half an hour. You must lie still before you do more damage to yourself.”

On any other day, he might have shrugged off her concerns and forced himself to continue fighting, but there was a desperation in her eyes begging him to listen to her. He suspected the memory of his death was still too close to the surface, so he let her inspect his wound again, press another bandage to it, then drape a blanket over his long form.

“We have to help them,” he said. He was exhausted, and he cursed the growing need to close his eyes and rest for a moment.

“I am trying, Ronon,” Teyla answered. “The Wraith was doing something in the jumper before we arrived. Some of the crystals are missing, and I have been unable to reopen the rear hatch. I think I understand what was done to it, and I may still be able to fix it, but not quickly. I fear—”

She cut off, shaking her head. Ronon dug through one of his pockets. He pulled out a thin blade and held it out to her.

“You’ll figure it out,” he whispered, and he could already feel himself fading quickly. “Then you can use this to cut the grin off that sneering bastard’s face.”

Teyla nodded, determination hardening her expression. Ronon watched her take the knife and walk toward the control panel near the back, returning to the task of opening the hatch as he gave in to his body’s need to sleep.

* * *

John stared at a dark spot on the opposite wall, high up near the ceiling. He was aware of his hands lying limp at his sides and of a pressure on his chest that felt like broken glass being ground into his skin, but numbing cold crept over him, drawing a dim haze over his world until even sounds faded.

The spot remained. He stared at it, transfixed. He wasn’t sure if he fell asleep or even closed his eyes, but minutes or hours later, sensations began to burn their way little by little back into existence. The spot seemed to grow darker and more distinct, the glass in his chest scraped against every minute trembling, and he heard McKay’s voice answering another unfamiliar one. He was leaning against something hard and solid, but shifting took too much effort and he sighed in defeat.

“John?”

Carson’s strained whisper floated over him, and he rolled his head just enough to see the doctor on his knees next to the remains of the Ancient chair, holding a gun. Rodney was moving around behind the chair, muttering now in a voice too low for him to understand. He blinked, sucking in a slow, shallow breath.

“John, just stay calm, lad. Don’t panic.”

Don’t panic? That was reason enough _to_ panic. His eyelids were threatening to close but he forced them open, spurred on by a sense that something was wrong. The pressure in his chest tightened, the ragged glass digging deeper and he finally looked down to see what was causing increasing waves of pain.

His gaze landed onto a pale hand, a web of purple veins stretching across the back of it and black nails curling and digging into his skin. His clothes were ripped, and he could just see bare skin under the hand. He shivered, and the hand pressed harder.

“No!” he gasped out, squirming to get away from it but his arms shook, too heavy to lift up to his chest and rip at the feeding hand flush against his skin.

“John, relax!” Carson screamed, sounding anything but calm and relaxed.

 _What the hell, what the hell, what the hell, what the hell…_

“Stop, or I will feed,” another voice sneered, and John rolled his head to look up at the Wraith pinning him against its leg. Memories rushed back—the abandoned Antarctic outpost, the broken chair. He’d been jerked awake by the sound of gunfire. He’d rolled off the bench, slipped out of the chair room through the back door and run around in time to see a Wraith—a _Wraith_ on Earth—stalking toward McKay.

He remembered tackling it, but not much else, and he thought maybe he’d woken up once before with the Wraith’s feeding hand pressing into his chest. He had probably panicked then. That would explain why Carson was screaming at him not to panic this time.

The Wraith dug its hand into his sternum, and John felt a sharp burning stab tunnel its way through his heart and lungs. He gasped then whimpered at a fresh trickle of blood oozing from under the Wraith’s hand and sliding over his stomach before it soaked into his clothes.

 _Had it fed?_ John swallowed, forcing himself to pull in slow deep breaths. It couldn’t have taken much. The pain began to abate almost immediately. The Wraith had started the process just enough to let him and the others know he was serious about his threat—as if they doubted him. He knew the Wraith would feed eventually; it wasn’t in their nature to let their prey go, despite Todd’s attempts to convince him otherwise. They were Wraith, and feeding on humans was their main, driving instinct.

John could feel adrenaline surging through his body now, but rather than giving him needed strength, it was only making him shake harder. The Wraith didn’t exactly relax, but it didn’t seem to be holding him as tightly as before. He let his arms fall to his sides, and he turned his head away from the creature toward Carson.

His fingers brushed against something on the floor, half covered under his body. McKay was talking to the Wraith again, begging him not to feed and telling him he was almost done. John wanted to ask the physicist what he was almost done with, but he was having a hard time breathing normally. He moved his hand slowly, not wanting to catch the Wraith’s attention, and he almost sobbed in relief when he recognized the hilt of a knife.

“This is taking too long,” the Wraith shouted, his attention focused on whatever McKay was doing.

McKay jerked up, holding his hands in the air. “I’m going as fast as I can, trust me. I’m almost done here.”

The Wraith didn’t respond, just growled. John used the moment to wrap his finger more tightly around the knife. McKay had dropped behind the chair again, but now he peered around the edge and met John’s eyes.

John stared back, searching McKay’s face for whatever the physicist was trying to tell him. McKay raised his eyebrows and grit his teeth, then looked pointedly at the chair. John nodded, hoping he was reading the physicist’s expression correctly, and tightened his grip on the knife. Whatever he was planning, it usually involved pyrotechnics and loud banging sounds.

Without the knife, John would have no chance of getting out of the Wraith’s grip, no matter how big a distraction McKay managed to pull off. The feeding hand felt like it was glued to his chest.

But with the knife…

Carson was staring at him, riveted by the horror of eventually watching John being drained to a dry husk and completely oblivious to what McKay was doing next to him. John shifted against the Wraith’s hand, gauging how tightly it was holding him and moving his weight off the blade of the knife.

“Just a few more minutes,” McKay said, his voice breaking.

John moaned at the feeling of glass being ground into his sternum again as the Wraith tightened its hold. He could feel his hand shaking, but he had the knife. Seconds later, he heard a loud pop, and then McKay was diving away from the chair, barreling into Carson and knocking the doctor to the ground. The chair erupted into a crackling smoking firecracker, popping and fizzing and filling the room with the stench of burning plastic. The Wraith leaned forward, shifting its weight, and John felt the feeding hand press harder into his chest.

He reacted, bringing the knife up and doing the only thing he could think of. He plunged it toward his own chest and sank the tip into of the blade into the back of the Wraith’s hand just as the chair popped again and sent a piece of the back rest hurtling across the room.

The Wraith screeched, a high-pitched squeal of pain that tore through John’s mind. He pushed the knife as hard as he could, and his own scream of pain joined the creature’s when he felt the blade slice into his skin and scrape across the flat bone of his sternum. The Wraith jerked its hand away, but John held onto the knife with his last remaining strength, releasing his grip only when the blade sank up to the hilt into the Wraith’s hand.

The Wraith lurched to the side, still howling. John fell backward then immediately curled up around the searing agony in his chest. He could hear McKay and Carson screaming, and the Wraith writhing behind him. He rolled onto his side, forcing his arms to push himself up to his knees, but full-body shuddering blasted any coordination he might have had.

Someone grabbed him by the arm and dragged him forward, but John had no strength left to fight the Wraith off. When it stopped moving, he curled back up into a quivering ball, the cool air biting at his open wound and sending shafts of pain through his chest.

“Colonel!” a voice yelled, shaking his arm and trying to force him to uncurl.

John looked up into Carson’s terrified face and whimpered.

“John?” Carson spoke more softly and pulled John’s limp body up into his arms, pressing a hand into the bleeding chest wound. John could do nothing but hang in his grasp, all his strength deserting him.

The Wraith had stopped howling, and John looked over at it in time to see it rip the knife from its hand. The ensuing screech reverberated through the entire outpost, and John sagged deeper into Carson. Blood dripped from the blade, and John recognized the knife as being the one Ronon had left with McKay so many hours before.

Carson was trying to scoot away from the creature now glowering at them. Within seconds it would cross the room, rip John out of the doctor’s protective hands, and finish the job it had started so many hours or minutes before. McKay was scrambling next to them, swearing like a seasoned Marine, and then John heard the distinct sound of metal sliding against metal and the click of a new magazine locking into place. He lifted his head and watched as McKay suddenly grew still and raised his gun with two hands.

The Wraith howled again, and McKay’s eyes narrowed. John saw him tense a second before he squeezed the trigger, and the explosion of sound that followed finally masked the Wraith’s incessant screaming. McKay fired again, then again, then again, unloading the entire clip into the creature.

By the time John managed to turn his head toward their attacker, it was on its knees, struggling to sit up, but it was still alive. McKay’s gun clicked as it expelled its last bullet and the Wraith swayed, catching itself from falling on its face. With a groan, it pulled its legs in and moments later pushed itself to its feet.

“Why won’t you die?” McKay roared and John flailed in Carson’s grip. His body was thrumming with adrenaline, needing to help in the fight but unable to do anything more than weakly thrash around on the ground.

The Wraith took a step toward them, almost losing its balance in the process. They probably could have finished the creature off with one last punch, but they were saved from the effort by a beautifully familiar red blast.

“Oh, thank God,” McKay breathed out. “What the hell took you so long, Ronon?”

Another red blast dropped the Wraith, and Teyla stepped out from around the corner, Ronon’s blaster looking large and heavy in her hands. She stared down at the Wraith a moment, then raised the weapon again and shot it twice more. Wisps of smoke curled up from its burning clothes.

“Teyla, are we glad to see you,” Carson said. “I thought for sure the Wraith had caught you and Ronon.”

“We managed to reach the jumper but Ronon reinjured his side,” Teyla said, stepping over the Wraith’s body and walking toward them. McKay crawled back to the chair, yanking on cables until it powered down.

John felt Carson lowering him to the ground, but he reached up and grabbed at the doctor’s hand to get his attention.

“Hang on, John. We’ll get you out here in a few minutes and you’ll be right as rain before you know it.”

“Wraith?” His voice sounded weak and frail, and the hand on Carson’s sleeve was barely gripping the fabric.

“It’s dead. Teyla got it.”

Carson reached behind him for something and John rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He could almost see a holographic image of the stars and planets, and hear McKay’s voice asking him to picture where they were in the solar system. He rolled his head and could just make out the Wraith’s body lying less than ten feet from him.

Was that where they were? After five years on Atlantis, five years of fighting them, the Wraith had finally reached Earth. He took a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut then opening them again. He was suddenly freezing cold and it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

Teyla appeared over him, brushing his hair away from his forehead and smiling. She was saying something to him, but her voice faded in and out of focus. Carson turned back toward him and pressed a bandage to his chest, but creeping numbness dulled the pain. Behind them, John saw McKay gathering up his laptop and rambling a hundred miles an hour about space vampires and Ancients and high blood pressure.

“Ronon?” he mumbled, because while there were a lot of missing faces after five years on Atlantis, that one should still be there.

“He is guarding the jumper,” Teyla answered.

John nodded, moaning when Carson pressed another bandage to his chest, some of that burning pain returning. The ceiling began to swim above him, and he blinked sluggish eyes.

“Hold on, John—don’t let go yet. I need you to hold on just a little bit longer. Teyla, love, grab his parka and boots.”

John heard his team moving around him, and felt hands manipulate him into his coat and shoes. He let his eyes close despite Carson and Teyla’s attempts to make him keep them open and shivered harder, the cold beating against him. A blanket was wrapped around him and he vaguely felt hands pulling and lifting, then the mechanical quiver of a floor moving. He held onto conscious just long enough to feel his teammates carry him out of the elevator and into the arctic blast of the world outside the outpost before he let the inviting warmth of darkness drape over him.

* * *

“John?”

John groaned at the light, turning his head into the pillow. Wherever he was, it was much brighter here, and all he wanted to do was go back to sleep.

“You are safe, John—we all are.”

His chest ached, not the sharp stabbing burn of before—it was dull and distant and a little itchy. He raised a hand toward it without opening his eyes, his fingers brushing against a thick bandage under his shirt. He could feel the pinch of an IV needle in the back of his hand as well, and the swimming congested feeling in his head from sleeping for too long.

“Teyla?” he murmured, and felt warm fingers pull his hand away from his chest and squeeze, the grip strong and reassuring.

“Yes,” she answered. “We are back on Atlantis.”

John finally forced his eyes open, letting the infirmary come into focus. Teyla was sitting next to him, looking tired but happy. Behind her, he could see the Golden Gate bridge through the infirmary window, and he blinked at the sight. He knew they were still sitting on the Pacific Ocean, but nevertheless, it was odd looking out a window or walking onto a balcony and actually seeing San Francisco.

“How do you feel?”

“Achy,” he answered, wincing as he stretched in the bed. He shifted his gaze back to Teyla’s face. “You?”

“I am fine,” she answered, biting back a smile. He blinked at her, wondering what she thought was so funny, but before he could ask he heard Ronon and McKay’s voice clattering through the infirmary.

“I have two PhDs— _two._ And yet, here I am, wheeling your sorry ass around the city because you were tired of staring at the pretty nurses. You’ve been here, what? A day? Not even?”

“Can you wheel me without talking, McKay?”

John grinned at Teyla and shifted in the bed to see McKay pushing Ronon in a wheelchair across the infirmary toward them. Ronon was dressed in scrubs and, other than the scowl on his face, looked well enough—just a little pale. McKay was frowning as well, but his expression softened into a smile when he spotted John awake.

“You’re the one who ran off and reopened all the stitches in your very serious injury, and then had to have surgery—again. I’m entitled to say whatever the hell I want. Look, Sheppard’s awake.”

Ronon jerked around, dropping the glare he’d been shooting up at McKay and grinning. He pushed up out of the chair before McKay reached John’s side and walked the last few steps toward him.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, patting John on the shoulder.

“Hey,” John croaked out, his voice suddenly dry. McKay shoved the wheelchair to the side, then grabbed a pitcher and glass of water, filling it then holding it out for John.

John took the glass, dismayed at the way his hand was still shaking, but the water tasted heavenly. He sipped slowly, relishing the cool liquid as it soaked into his dry throat and washed away the foul taste of his tongue sticking to the roof his mouth.

“I knew I was going to have to go all nurse-maid. There’s just no respect for physicists around here.”

“Thanks,” John whispered, handing the glass back and grinning at the small smile that flitted across McKay’s lips. “What happened to the Wraith?”

“Dead,” McKay answered. “Finally.”

“We brought its body up to the surface and chained it to the outside of the dome entrance,” Teyla added. “The SGC sent a retrieval team for it soon after we returned to Atlantis.”

“You’re sure it’s dead?”

McKay grabbed a chair and pulled it closer to the bed. “Between the thirty or so bullet wounds, and Ronon’s gun, and the subzero temperatures of winter on Antarctica—yes, we’re sure. Wasn’t easy, though.”

“And the chair?”

Ronon grinned. “McKay broke it.”

“I didn’t break it! It was already damaged.”

“McKay broke it more.”

“It’s on its way here,” the scientist huffed, crossing his arms. “Where it should have come the first time. Still completely fixable.”

“Knew you could fix it,” John said, stifling a yawn.

“The retrieval team has also found the remains of the scientists who should have met us,” Teyla added. “The Wraith…”

She trailed off, but John didn’t really need her to finish. He’d seen how strong the Wraith had been, and had known even then that the missing scientists had been drained. He felt his chest twinge in pain and he winced, bringing a hand up to rub against the bandages. The Wraith had started to feed on him also—he’d felt it—but he hadn’t asked yet how much he’d aged, how much the Wraith had taken. He glanced at his teammates as they settled into chairs around him, but they seemed to be acting normal.

“Did it…” he started, then swallowed when his voice came out shaky. He cleared his throat and tried again, pressing his hand into his chest. “Did the Wraith…uh…”

The others froze, staring at him in shock. John saw Ronon turn away, anger flushing his cheeks. McKay’s eyes darted between John’s face and chest, then over to Teyla and Ronon, then away again. Teyla reached out and grabbed the hand resting on his chest with both of hers.

“I felt it,” he whispered, but Teyla shook her head.

“It did not feed, John. Carson said it did just enough to break the skin, but no more.”

“It barely gave you any of the enzyme,” McKay added, “so you won’t even have to suffer through withdrawals. And the seizure… the chair didn’t do any permanent damage.”

“You’re going to be fine, Sheppard,” Ronon rumbled, leaning back in his chair and throwing his feet up on the side.

“But you still need to rest,” Teyla said. “If Carson catches us keeping you awake, he will kick us all out.” She glared at Ronon and McKay as she said it, then patted John’s hand one last time and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. He was suddenly exhausted again, and sleeping sounded like a good idea despite the many, many Wraith-infested nightmares he knew would haunt his near future.

“Yeah, sleep up, Sheppard,” McKay said. “The IOA meets in a couple of days to talk about what they think they’re going to do with the city now that they’ve got it here, but I have a foolproof plan that will get us and Atlantis back into Pegasus inside of a month, and I’m going to need all of your help.”

McKay glanced around then launched into his idea, lowering his voice as he started to explain it, but John only smiled and let himself drift. It was too much work keeping his eyes open, so he let them close as McKay talked, too tired to worry about the details of whatever the man was planning yet, and pleasantly relieved at the thought that they would soon be back in Pegasus.

After all, though he would never admit it to McKay, the man’s plans usually worked.

END


End file.
